


Yields

by forpeaches (bluecarrot)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (sort of?), Arranged Marriage, F/M, Marriage, Oral Sex, Sex, Sparring, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-08 16:11:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19872406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecarrot/pseuds/forpeaches
Summary: in which Jaime wins a battle and loses the war(or)Brienne set up a trial-by-weapons to make sure she stayed unmarried. It was a good plan ... until a certain Lannister noticed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “yields”  
> meaning both giving in to an argument or fight  
> & the amount you receive from an effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 19 july 2019.

For the first time since he’d been knighted, — and a good while before —Jaime was losing.

His opponent forced him back, striking harder and faster than he could respond to except to block and block and block again; he took another step back, found himself on the edge of the circle of sand, and held on grimly.

This was his father’s fault. Tywin Lannister had suggested it as a lark, a test for his quick, skilled son. Jaime refused — he did not need to be _reminded,_ he would not be _controlled_ — and his father smiled. _I thought you’d be too intimidated._

So it was a grinding annoyance at the smug self-satisfaction on his father’s face that pressed him forward, fighting back better than he’d ever done in actual battle — as if more than his life or honor were at stake, as if something precious and rare were to be won.

His opponent moved backwards, tripped, and sprawled down in the dirt.

“Yield,” said Jaime: and again, when it was silent: “ _Yield_.”

The loser threw the tourney sword in furious disgust.

Jaime extended his right hand.

Brienne huff’d and climbed alone to her feet. She pushed past him roughly and went to find her father.

“In _fairness_ ,” he said to a very clean and very angry Brienne, three days later, “in all fairness, my lady, you very nearly won.”

She did not reply.

“It was only a reverse crosstep that caught your foot.”

A silent roll of her eyes towards the vaulted roof.

“I’ve never fought such an opponent,” he said, trying to be polite.

She sniffed. “More lies from the Kingslayer.”

“Beg pardon?”

The septon turned — Jaime had whispered too loud.

And so Brienne did not acknowledge Jaime for the rest of the ritual; she only murmured the words and stared ahead like she was already planning how to murder him.

When he leaned in to bestow the formal kiss, her mouth was cold as stone.

Tarth, being a rural backwater, held to its own customs about the consumation. They must sit through an interminable supper and a second religious service, much longer than the first, during which a fairly drunk Lannister admired the wax slipping down the long white line of the candles and wondered how in god’s sake he was going to get through the bedding.

His bride did not look much more ruddy than the tapers. She had a bright spot of color in each cheek that flared whenever he looked at her, and her eyes were clear as the sky. She was also (Jaime wished he had drunk more) quite ugly. And freckles. Ugly, poor teeth, freckles, and taller even than he was; and she had no chest, no softness to her. All leg and muscle.

He didn’t need to ask how _she_ felt about marrying him. He’d heard that conversation — her repeated refusal, which lost in politeness as it gained in volume — and her father equalling her in candor. Finally she’d broken down in tears and he sent her to her room.

Jaime barely had time to press himself into the shadow of the corridor before she rushed past, red-faced and noisily weeping.

Cersei had taken his likely marriage with an admirable amount of self-control. “You will best her, of course. And then you will gain the Rock, and that miserable island as well, and —“

“And I’ll never see you any more. Is that what you want?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she’d said. “Robert will die, one of these days. And when I am queen ...”

“You mean when _Joffrey_ is king ... Have you thought about what it will mean for Joff to be king?”

“He is a child still. I will rule in his stead and then,” she’d run her hands down his waist, “then you can return, plant this ugly cow in some distant pasture, and ...”

They didn’t finish in words.

“I don’t need your help.”

“I was only —“

“Keep your hands to yourself, ser.”

“Not for long,” he said, amused and annoyed. “Brienne —“

“Don’t _speak_ to me either.”

So he only watched as she unlaced her gown with quick, jerky movements, tugged it off and dropped it to the floor, and nearly flew into the big bed at the center of the room.

Her head disappeared below the covers.

A second later her shift came out and was thrown blindly, very nearly hitting him in the face.

He swallowed down a laugh — it would not improve matters — and got to work on his own clothes.

She’d pulled up the covers and yes, the dark made things easier; he found he could kiss her and even enjoy himself when it was dark. And what was the use of dawdling over things? so he touched her too.

“Don’t,” she said, low.

“Don’t — what?”

“Don’t act like I will ever want this. Don’t pretend. We should at least have honesty between us, if you are capable of it, ser.”

Jaime flinched. “Brienne—“

“Get on with it,” she said: and refused to speak again, no matter what he said.

So after a while he did.

Afterwards he stumbled out and found a wrapper to cover himself and fell asleep in a very uncomfortable chair.

The candle still burned. And all night, every time he woke to turn over, he heard Brienne crying.

Breakfast was a grim affair. They sat together as husband and wife, and too close; their elbows hit each other again and again until she leaned over and hissed “Hasn’t anyone taught you to cut meat, Lannister?”

“We do it with our other hand in the civilized world, my lady. And you defame your own name, trying to insult mine. Have you forgotten so easily?” His back had not forgotten the uncomfortable rest in the too-small chair.

“I am _of Tarth_. I will always be from Tarth. It does not matter what you do or say —“

“I recall that you were there too, much as you shut your eyes to ignore it—“

“Might I assume by this line of conversation,” said her laconic father, cutting into the argument, “that the marriage has been consumated?”

Brienne sat back and clenched her knife like she was considering which part of him to plunge it into first.

Jaime was sure she would not suffer for ideas. “Yes, ser.” He glanced at his bride. “Thoroughly. Do you require validation?”

“No. My daughter’s mulish expression is familiar enough that I can guess fairly well how things went.” He cut his eggs. “How do you fare this morning, my girl?”

“Well enough.”

“No complaints? Nor praise?” He ate placidly.

“If I had a complaint, ser Jaime would have made you aware of it when you removed the knife from his belly. As for praise? You would hear that from me over his corpse.” She rose, nodded to her father, and left.

Jaime looked helplessly at his goodfather.

Lord Selwyn said: “This will pass. It is nothing to when she was fitted for her first gown.”

“It occurs to me,” said Jaime, cautious, “that my father might have encouraged this marriage because he is more eager to fit me for a shroud than he is to receive his first Lannister grandchild.”

Selwyn gave him a long, cool expression. “Lord Tywin is an intelligent man, ser Jaime. I believe his is perfectly capable of counting his grandchildren.”

Jaime smiled. “What a thing to say to your new son.”

“Pardon me, ser. Tarth is at such a remove from civilization that I sometimes forget the courtly manners I learned as a child.” He inclined his head — it was not quite a bow. “I hope my daughter will only weep half the night from now on.”

And he rose, leaving Jaime alone with the cooling remains of what had been a rather nice meal.

“Your father,” said Jaime to his new wife “is the closest thing to a Lannister that I have met since leaving Kings Landing.”

“I suppose you consider that a compliment. How did you find me?”

“It’s a statement of fact.” _All the Lannisters of my acquaintance are a bloody pain in my ass,_ he could have said, and _Did you tell him you cried all night or did he guess,_ and _Is it me that you hate or all men_. “I am a lion, you know. We know how to hunt. Do you like the sea?”

“Tarth is an island,” said his beloved wife. “I have little choice but to love the sea.”

“Of course you have a choice, you always have a choice. I’ve spent most of my life with my own father and I certainly don’t love him. This is a beautiful spot.”

She didn’t answer, watching a bird fight the wind to rise above it. Then: “All of Tarth is beautiful, or nearly.”

“The sapphire isle. Yes. You love your father? He does not seem an easy man to love.”

Her jaw was tight. “I suppose Lord Tywin is much easier.”

“I told you, he’s a shriveled miserable bastard who lives to manipulate me. And my siblings. He doesn’t usually succeed with any of us, except recently.” His mouth twisted.

“You regret marrying me.”

“I regret being tricked.”

Brienne stood back and stared in a cold fury. “Should I have lifted my helm before we began? Surely you had heard tales of my beauty and grace.”

“I didn’t mean _you_ ,” he began truthfully enough: but she was gone, pushing through the long grasses, the wind and her strides taking her out of the range of his voice.

Jaime did not care to follow.

She didn’t cry that night. Jaime finished and rolled on his side and slept, dreaming of evil things.

On the third night she cried again, and this time she spoke. “Please don’t.”

“But—”

“It hurts. _Please_. I know it’s your — your right, but—”

“Gods, Brienne!” He moved away from her, hesitating, angry with himself, and moved nearer again. He touched her shoulder.

She stiffened.

“Calm down. I’m not — I don’t want to hurt you. Did it hurt before — of course it did.” _It_ , he thought. _Me._ I _hurt her._ “Brienne, don’t cry like that. It shouldn’t hurt you like this. It shouldn’t hurt at all.” He thought of Cersei, making sounds in her pleasure like she was being beaten; but that wasn’t the same.

“It’s not the _pain_ ,” came the response, indignance muffled by feathers. “I’m not afraid of pain.”

Of course she wasn’t. “Then what ...”

“It’s — I don’t like it. And you’re noisy. And you’re rude, and I don’t _like_ you—”

Jaime laughed aloud and regretted it immediately, because a furious Brienne kicked him in the shin and her foot was very hard. “My lady, I apologize for laughing and sincerely apologize for hurting you and dammit, _look at me._ You promised to be honest, didn’t you? So you can _tell_ me when you don’t like something. We start there.”

She frowned at him and sat up — she had gone back to wearing a shift in bed, presumably because she didn’t care to make things any easier on Jaime. “Truly?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. I don’t like you in my bed.”

Jaime reflected that he had brought this on himself. “Lady Brienne.”

“I don’t like you touching me. I don’t like to be married to you. I don’t like to see your face at table; it turns me off my feed.”

“Your _feed_. Do you realize that you speak like a stableboy?”

“I don’t like my island being compared to a cow pasture. I don’t like my father being insulted in his own home. I don’t like being mocked, I don’t like being poked and prodded and hurt to make certain I’m still _intact_ , and then sold off to someone who only married me because he was afraid he might lose to a _girl!”_

Jaime was silent.

“And I don’t like you being rude to me.”

“When was I rude?”

“You laughed.”

“Well, I didn’t enjoy being kicked for it. We can consider that even. — Is there anything about me that you do like?” Silence. “Brienne?”

“You’re very pretty,” grudging.

Jaime did not laugh this time. “That’s one thing.”

“And a good swordsman.”

“Two. We’re improving all the time. Alright. So. What do I like about you?”

He had to think. She was brash, argumentative, stubborn, and ugly; she fought like a man, kicked like a man, and had the chest of a pre-teen girl.

Her lips were surprisingly full, he thought. And her eyes — based on the handful of times she’d deigned to look at him — were extraordinary.

He doubted she would consider most of that worthy of mention. “You’re an astonishingly good swordsman.”

“For a girl.”

“You’re frankly _unbelieveable_ for a girl. Even if you were a man ... you’re the best I’ve ever fought, or nearly. That’s an achievement for anyone.”

“You lie.”

“I don’t. If you hadn’t tripped on that back-cross—”

“Stupid mistake. A rank page could do better.”

“No. They couldn’t. And I made mistakes too. I always do.”

“Lies,” she said again. “If you had, we wouldn’t be here.”

Her eyes were so blue. “I shouldn’t have fought you — not like this, out of pride and trying to win. I shouldn’t have married anyone who didn’t want to marry me.”

She didn’t answer.

“And I shouldn’t have hurt you last night. It won’t happen again.” He considered this. “It will not happen until you want it.”

“Liar,” she whispered. “Men are liars.”

“For a wife receiving a boon, you are very ungrateful.”

“For a husband giving a gift, you really are rude,” she said: and for the first time, he saw the tiny edge of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> true story: my parents sit next to each other at table, and my father hits my mother in the arm every single time he cuts his food.  
> some people are just rude.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 19-20 july 2019.

So. He had a wife — whom he’d agreed not to touch; and an island — that he didn’t want; and he had his inheritance and his sister, beloved, but too far away to make any difference to anyone.

And Cersei was wed to Robert.

Jaime had not considered the fact of Cersei’s marriage very important while she was underneath him, receiving him, wanting him.

Now he was married likewise, and he felt something shift. He didn’t want to fuck Brienne but the thought of her fucking someone else was just as distasteful. Would she enjoy it? Would she be noisy, eager, wet for him?

 _Rude,_ she’d called Jaime. Rude. And she had smiled.

Jaime lay alone in bed in the morning — Brienne said he was lazy and dressed and left, nose up in the air — and brought himself off with his hand. _Cersei_ , he thought. Her smell, her body, her own sounds, thick with desire, gods he wanted her still, would always ...

He came downstairs in no pleasant mood and asked the first servant he saw for his wife.

“She is in the practice yard, my lord ser.”

Of course she was.

“Lady Brienne,” he called, a safe distance away. “Would you like a partner?”

She had heard him: nevertheless she finished her paces before she turned to him. “Bare?” Meaning, without armor and padding, as she was. Whatever shadow-man she had been fighting would break no bones.

“If you care to be bruised again,” he said, meaning to joke, but his wife did not smile. 

He dusted his hands with chalk and checked the sword’s leather grip for looseness.

“Our weapons are well-kept, ser.”

“I mean no disrespect, my lady. Habit only.“

“As you will. On your count.”

But Jaime did not take his stance. “You fight like this? Without a helm for your face, or—”

“So do you.”

“Yes, but—”

“Fear for your own beauty. I have none to lose. Mark!” And she attacked.

Jaime raised a sloppy block, shifted his weight, and began to fight in earnest.

Sooner than he expected it was over, and he’d fallen in the dirt. He coughed, winded.

“Do you yield?”

“Gods, woman. It’s only a spar.”

“ _Yield_.”

No. He went for more chalk and returned to the circle, resuming his position. “On three.”

They went longer this time before he struck Brienne. She tumbled, and Jaime stood over her, smiling. “Yield!”

She kicked out his feet from under him and had him again on the ground, laughing, angry, sore. 

Strike, parry, block; strike, block, lunge; now Brienne stepped out of the circle and now Jaime did, while Brienne pushed him off her with a grunt that (he thought) he would be very glad to hear under different circumstances —

He didn’t even see the blow that knocked him down that time, just felt the impact in his hip and knees and elbow and jawbone, all along the right side. He heard Brienne gasping, catching her breath, and he thought: _I should get up_. But it didn’t seem very important.

“Break?” said his wife.

“Break,” said her husband, never so grateful for a reprieve in his life. He rolled on his back and looked at the sky. Blue blue blue, blue as the ocean, blue as her eyes, blue as ...

“Enjoying a nap, Lannister?”

He smiled at her. “I deserve one. Help me up, wench. I feel the need of a bath.”

The bath left him smelling sweet (“these are oils from Dorne, my lord”) and softly pink all over (“I can stay to assist you, my lord”) and it did the needed job of softening his muscles, but it contributed an unwelcome gift of hardening something else.

— Or perhaps that was his attendant, blessed to have the shape and scent of Cersei.

He considered having the girl attend him, perhaps with her mouth? It looked skilled, and the gods knew he had been long enough ... untended. But no. He sent her away with thanks and a smile, wishing he had thought to bring a few coppers with him to the bathing-room.

Instead he sank down in the water til it reached his chin and thought about Brienne.

He didn’t want to do it — but they were married, weren’t they? Their time together as a couple had been a thankfully brief and mutually-distasteful experience — so he thought of Brienne as she _might_ be. Gods, the way she fought! her movements and noises ... He’d never understood until today what could be so interesting at a tourney for a young woman. From his perspective it was all dust and noise and sunlight on armor.

Having Brienne close to him — sweating and loud — he wanted her closer. Yes, he did, he could admit that, there wasn’t anyone else to know, he’d wanted to push her in the dirt and keep her there, til someone coming by afterwards would seen the prints in the dust of splayed thighs and legs and hands, to know what had happened ...

He came with his eyes shut tight, thinking _Cersei_.

He was just emerging out of the haze and climbing out of the water when the door opened.

A voice squeaked. “I thought you’d be finished!”

Funny to hear his wife so timid. “I am now. No need to run away, I’ll leave you alone to your pleasure.”

“But —“

“You’ve seen me before,” he said in some irritation, before realizing that in fact she had not. No matter. “Towel?”

Brienne handed him one, averting her eyes.

Coward. “Was that good for you, my lady?”

“The — the sparring? It was.” Shyly unlacing her tunic. “Aren’t you going to leave?”

“Oddly, I changed my mind. Let me help you.”

“Ser —”

“We’re married, Brienne. _Jaime_ will suffice. Or _my lord,_ in very particular circumstances.“

“I don’t want this.”

“I am not going to bother you, not in the way you’re so plainly fearing I am going to do it. There. Step out of your trousers.” He draped them on a stool and considered her. “What about the dhift?”

“Not while you’re here.” She got into the bath wearing it, instead.

If Jaime had been willing to speak, he could have told her that nudity would never be as alluring as that thin white cloth, already clinging damply to her skin with sweat.

He only shrugged. “Suit yourself.” And he removed the towel — slowly — dressed — no lazy striptease here — wished he could kiss her — and left.

Supper with Selwyn and Brienne was a long stretch of stilted conversation and uninteresting food.

Jaime waited.

When they were back in their room alone and the candle was out, he kissed his wife as he’d been wanting to do it: both hands to the sides of her face, holding her close, pressing her against him. He was half-hard just from waiting, and knew she felt it.

Brienne froze. “You said you wouldn’t,” she hissed.

“This is a _kiss_ ,” he whispered back. “Kissing is not bedding. That’s why people do it in public.”

“They fuck in public too. I’ve seen it. And I told you, ser. You agreed. And ...”

He brushed her hip with his thumb and her heartbeat quickened: but from fear or desire, he couldn’t tell. “I want you.”

”You promised,” she said again, like reminding him of his honor would succeed even where a _No_ would not.

The dark hot smell of her was not a _yes_ ; the wet between her legs was not a _yes_.

She could be convinced, of course — that was clear enough — but she was the sort to consider that foul play.

Jaime swore and rolled over and slept.

“Oh, no.”

“What?” He sat up.

She was embarrassed. He had never seen her embarrassed. She said, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“What is it?” And then he saw the blood and his heart caught. “You’re not hurt?”

“It’s my monthlies. It came early. I’m sorry, it’s such a mess, I ...”

“Shhh.” He got out of bed, bleary with sleep. It was very early and the light was thin and grey. “Do you have anything nearby to use for it?”

“The chest there, bottom left. Jaime, you don’t ... you can go back to bed.”

He was too tired to argue. He brought back a little wrapped bundle of fabric and covered the bloody spot on the mattress while Brienne put a rag in her clothes.

She said, more timid than he’d ever heard her: “Men don’t know about these things, that’s what my septa said ...”

“Cersei.” He lay down and shut his eyes. “She had hers as any woman does.”

He was nearly asleep again when she spoke. “So it’s true. You lay with her.”

For once, he didn’t want to talk of this. “You don’t understand.”

“Did you love her? Is she beautiful?”

“Yes.”

She was still sitting up. Her hands pressed into her belly, rubbing like she was massaging out a knot. “You want to go back to her.”

He didn’t answer, falling back into sleep, and this time she let him.

A week later he dreamt he was hard as anything, kissing Brienne, his hand deep inside her while she whimpered for more.

He woke to find the first one of those true.

So he leaned over and found her mouth with his mouth and found her breast with his hand —

— and found himself unceremoniously pushed away. “Jaime, I told you no.”

“I am asking you to reconsider.”

“That was not a request. Leave me be. I’ll yell and wake up every sleeper in Evenfall.”

“You have no rights of refusal here, and well you know it. Be thankful I want a willing partner.” Jaime preferred other terms, like _eager_ and _begging_ and _dripping_ and _desperate —_ but at this point _willing_ was plenty good enough _._

“I am willing.”

“And you’re saying this through gritted teeth? How charming. Brienne, open your legs. Let me touch you. — Is that dreadful? Are my kisses too rough? Am I a monster?”

She pulled away. “You are not a monster, and that ... that is why you will listen to me. No, Jaime. No.”

He turned away from her and finished alone with his hand, not bothering to hide his noise.

One day a raven flew in weary from Lannistros, dirt dulling its sleek wings, flapping low through the yards.

Jaime caught it in mid-flight.

“Ser!” said a boy nearby. “You can’t, that goes to the maester ...”

“It’s a bird of Kings Landing.” He knew it, he knew without looking: but he did not know what bad news it held. “See the seal? Now go.”

His wife found him there some hours later and stood uncertainly. “Have you been drinking?”

“Yes.” And crying: but she didn’t need to know that. “I received word. News of my sweet sister. _I lost it,_ she said. Does that please you, my wife? You will never have another rival for your inheritance. The last Lannister grandchild is a Baratheon after all.”

Brienne’s face changed to red and pink and red again, but she did not speak. Jaime expected her to — what? She could no more un-consummate their marriage than he could murder that brute Robert Baratheon and marry his sister himself.

She sat down on the flagstones nearby. “Tell me about Cersei.”

How to describe her? “She is tall, and very fair — she looks like me. My twin, my equal. My lover. My love. I know what I look like when I’m fucking, because I can see her.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Very.”

Brienne said, like reciting from a text: “She is married to Robert — Stannis’ brother. They have three children.”

“Three blonde children with big green eyes, yes. Tall, too. Just like their uncle Jaime.” He took a drink.

“Does Robert know?”

“Rhetorical.”

“Does Lord Tywin?”

That gave him pause. “No.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Sorry? That I won’t have another bastard? Don’t be sorry for that. I didn’t even know she was pregnant. It was my fault, too. She was angry with me. I had meant to come on her belly or in her hand or mouth—”

He saw Brienne flinch. Good.

“— but I was hungry for it, hungry for her, and she let me. _Our last time,_ she said to me, and I said _No no, only the last time for a while_. And she pushed her fingernails into my skin and I pushed into her and I finished hard inside her, and it felt like ... like being born. Is that what you want to apologize for?

”This baby was meant to be a smear on her sheets, just like the others. That’s all Joffrey is — was meant to be. That’s all I am, or Tyrion, or you or Cersei or anyone. Just this,” he made an obscene gesture, “in the right place.”

Brienne was chewing on her lips.

Jaime laughed. “I’ll never have even that much again. Cersei will never again let me on her — inside her. Not since I married you. I should have seen that and kept the hell away from Tarth, but here we are, there is no returning. And you, Brienne. You still deny me my husband’s privileges. Won’t you?”

He kissed her roughly — not at all like the tiny gentle kisses he’d given her before — and held on a moment longer, kissing a few more times than he’d been intending to do. Her mouth was so good.

“I’m sorry,” he said to her, against her. His hands ran down her waist — such as it was — to her hips, broad as her shoulders but not curved as a real woman’s curves should be, not like ... He kissed her again, hard with wanting it. “Brienne.” Tell me to stop.

Instead, she kissed him back. Only once. But it was firm and sure and her eyes were shut, and he returned it. And then it was several minutes before they separated for the night.

  
They sparred nearly every day, usually with each other.

Brienne showed Jaime her archery, hitting the distant target six times and the line outside of center twice.

Jaime admired. “Fine work. I never made an archer. My poor tutor was devastated,” laughing. “He said it was impossible to teach a Lannister anything.”

“Your hands don’t work together, is why. You think of them as separate. They’re one unit — the length of your arm, the breadth of your shoulders is one whole.”

He shook his head. “Woman, you’re mad. My sword hand isn’t part of the other.”

“That’s why you’ll never be a good swordsman,” she said, calm.

“I _bested_ you! Or do you need help to recall the situation?”

“Jaime, I _tripped_. Put down your pride and listen to me. No, here’s better. Shut your eyes and hold out your arms.”

Furious, offended, embarrassed, he did.

She came around behind him; he felt her hand on his arm even through the wool of the tunic. “One line, one pull, from your anchor” — touching his left hand — “across your shoulders, connecting to your draw.” His other hand.

He felt her body press against his, felt her fingers curl into his. He turned to face her. His heat was up.

Brienne was flushed. “Your footwork is excellent. You don’t think _left here right here, cross change turn lunge_ — it’s natural to you, it’s like ... like ...”

His voice dropped. “Like what.”

“Nothing. Nothing. Nevermind.”

He woke to the sound of whimpering.

 _Dream_ , he thought. She had nightmares, he knew, she was grey and drawn in the morning and did not speak of them except in bare terms: _My brother drowned when I was young,_ or _I dreamt I saw my father murdered_.

Jaime opened his eyes, meaning to comfort her.

Brienne did not need comforting.

She had her eyes shut and her legs splayed; one hand was in her mouth, biting down on the pad of her thumb, and the other was below the sheets. Her hips jerked up and her back arched and the sounds she was making, even muffled, were not what he had imagined them to be (he had imagined it, repeatedly) — but for once, reality was not a disappointment; she was vocal, she was sweating, she was finishing even as he watched.

She came with long shuddering breaths — rolled on her side — saw him awake — and shut her eyes.

” _Brienne_ ,” he said.

She did not answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can track Jaime’s emotional path via how he introduces himself to people. it starts out with “Hello yes I am Jaime Lannister, I fuck my sister and murder kings, excellent to meet you, hello” 
> 
> and ends up at “yeah hey i’m Jaime hello have you seen the abnormally tall and marvelously badass woman who I intend to make my wife? I haven’t kissed her in three whole hours and my mouth is sore from wanting.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written 21-23 July 2019, because the ending took three days to untangle.
> 
> *
> 
> my apologies to Cersei, who is a much more complex, intelligent, and interesting character than i ever give her credit for :/
> 
> *
> 
> Jaime’s whispered “Don’t” to her, when they are in bed and she is Queen, is the most affecting line of the show.

Jaime woke to a mouth on his and his first thought was _Cersei_.

Greedy he kissed her back, hardening already with it, pushing her legs apart with his knee. He touched her — yes — she was pliable and soft and

— shy? 

Cersei hadn’t been shy since they were children of eight or nine.

Soft kisses on his mouth, soft hands running down his hips. Her body thick and muscular and dense. He shrank away. “Brienne?”

“Please. I want it.”

“No. Not from me.” He moved off her, feeling sick. _Cersei_. Gods, gods — did he miss her so much he could just use another body for it — use Brienne?

 _She is your wife,_ said his father, in his mind. _She is there to be used. Take her and fill her, do whatever you want —_ how many times had he heard this lecture?

It made sense at first, before he knew her. Now she was not a wife — a vessel — she was Brienne. The best fighter he’d ever seen, who returned blow for blow against him and bested him seven of ten, four of ten, six of ten; she saw his choices before he made them.

Brienne. Who had set an impossible task to win her matrimony — like some princess in a fairy-tale — and accepted her loss better than Jaime had accepted his success.

 _I’m sorry_ she’d said, when he told her he had three bastards on his sister and had lost another.

 _Don’t touch me,_ she had said. _Don’t pretend I’ll ever want this._

Now she lay in bed beside him and touched herself, not bothering to hide it or wait til he slept.

 _Please?_ and he had turned her down.

She was close to the end. Her sounds were different, breathy and unfinished.

He pulled her hand away. “No.”

She made a noise of complaint. His wife. She had taken a tourney flat to the head last week and fell down unconscious and woke up only needing a moment to find her feet, who he’d watched being stitched up with needle and only clenched her jaw, who had raged for half the day when a misplaced foot lost her freedom — and now, she actually whimpered.

Jaime kissed her. “Let me.”

She shifted her legs and now he could smell her — so he kissed her again. “Has anyone ever ... nevermind.” He’d kill anyone who thought of it. This was _his_ , how open she was and how she bucked upwards for his fingers, how she complained.

He laughed at her. “Are you sure?”

Wet and heat and tension: she was sure. He tucked his thumb inside and pulled it out, oh that gasp, he held it firm on her and tested one finger — yes, but more — two? and she was jerking upwards again. Please.

He could taste what she wanted on her mouth.

Slow or fast? it didn’t seem to matter, she complained either way. _More_. Hard, rough _(yes, Jaime)_ and a slow slow drag out gave her an allover shudder and a moan, so deep he thought he’d lost her, it was finished.

Jaime was not finished.

He teased, pretending it was his tongue dipping inside, wishing he had another hand for himself —

— well, why not? “Brienne. Touch me.”

So she gripped him like he was a sword’s grip and he swore for several reasons. “Lighter. Don’t hurt me.”

“I’m sorry—“

 _Fuck_ apologies, fuck this slow tangle, she wanted to come and so did he, she deserved as little mercy here as she showed him on the sparring field — it was only a moment and she was biting into his shoulder, and she’d forgotten to move on him but the way her hand clenched and her body shook and the sound of her voice were enough, more than enough.

Jaime kissed her through it and soon enough she was kissing him back.

They did not talk about this.

In public they continued as usual — arguing, sparring, refusing to allow the other one a moment of peace or the upper hand — but more than once Jaime caught his wife up against the wall in some disused corridor and kissed her until she was pink-cheeked, slipping his hand inside the trousers she wore instead of gowns and skirts, down down along her skin until he found curls and then he found her, sweetly wanting, Brienne.

One time she found him. Studying over some book that seemed very important until she came inside the room and shut the door — there was no bolt to draw across — and, pushing aside the book, sat on the table herself. “Good morning, husband.”

She never called him that unless she was angry or wanted something. And she was not angry. “Good morning, wife. What ... to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

“You tell me.”

She was red-faced, sweaty, pleased. “You’ve been sparring.”

“Fighting, rather. But go on.”

“True swords? Against ... against that lordling, the one visiting. What is he called.”

“Arryn of the Vale. Banner a falcon against the moon, blue and white. Don’t they teach you Lannisters anything? He’s quite good.”

“He didn’t hurt you?” She put her legs up on his chair, one of either side, and yes: that smell was her, sweat and wanting and _gods_.

She still hadn’t let him take her again.

Jaime had stopped asking.

Brienne said: “He — he said he had come to try for my hand and it wasn’t his fault Kings Landing is closer. I told him he was late and — oh — he didn’t care.”

“Go on with your story.” He was rubbing. 

Arryn had demanded a chance against Jaime, since he had been the victor.

Brienne told the lordling to fuck off. “I said he was welcome to make you eat dirt and spit blood, he had my blessing for that, but I would let no man in my bed who didn’t know how to use a sword. And he said — seven hells —“

“Did he say that, indeed. Brienne,” with his mouth on her bare thigh, “let me have you like this.”

“I told you...”

He doubted very very much that the lady would protest the actual fact of his cock, were he to reintroduce her to it; but that wasn’t what he wanted. This was daylight and Brienne on a table, flush with winning, and he wanted his tongue inside her.

She acceeded readily enough, when it was explained to her: and then he had the quick pleasure of her heat, her noise, her taste.

Jaime was late to breakfast.

He had spent all morning curled against the sleeping warmth of a certain long-limbed woman, who slept with her mouth open, and all he’d wanted to do was ...

So he was late.

He dropped a kiss on Brienne’s cheek and sat next to her. “Good morning. And to you, Lord Selwyn.”

“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”

“Excellently well, thank you.” He was less enthused at the breakfast; fish seemed to be the main component of every meal, and his landlocked palate protested the absence of four-legged meat. “Brienne, you look ... displeased.”

She looked ready to set the table on fire, or possibly her father, or maybe Jaime himself. “Of course not, ser. What could cause me displeasure when I am in your company?”

She really was furious.

Jaime did not choose to ask further.

“We have had a raven from Kings Landing.” His goodfather wiped his mouth. “Your father sends his well-wishes. And your sister informs us we will be blessed with her presence in a sennight, or perhaps less.”

Jaime turned to Brienne in time to see her overturn the wine pitcher in his lap.

She refused to speak to him — not to spar, nor be touched, nor anything. She kicked him until he crawled out of bed and slept on the same too-small chair he’d slept in their first night together; he found it no more comfortable now.

And just like then, he stayed awake listening to the sound of her tears.

“Cersei.”

“Brother.”

They kissed formally on the cheek, and Jaime pretended not to notice how her mouth lingered. He did not have to see Brienne’s face to know she had seen. “Wife,” he said to her, “come and meet your sister.”

Brienne bowed, and Cersei laughed outright, not bothering to cover it up by a cough.

“The stories were true. She is uglier than a gargoyle.” She was examining a tapestry — a sun and moon, azure. The banner of Tarth. “And she is taller even than you. However do you manage to fuck that creature at night?”

It was strange to be taller than a woman again. True, he had only a few inches on her, but Brienne had as much as that on him ...

“Do you shut your eyes and pretend she’s me? It would take a lot of pretending. She’s got no tits to speak of, even.”

“If you came here solely to insult my wife, I confess surprise. It’s quite a long trip for such an easy target. Not at all your style.”

She stared at him. “Careful, brother. Someone might think you’re fond of the — what did you call her? the _stupid cow._ ”

“Careful, sweet sister. Someone might think you’re jealous.”

“I don’t like people playing with my toys.” She rubbed him. “And it is still mine, isn’t it? My own brother. My lover.”

She smiled at him and _oh_ he had missed her smile, he had missed _her_ , and he’d missed this most of all — not the act, not her mouth on him and then her sweet heat and her noise muffled by his hands, even better than he’d remembered she was —

He had missed _being known,_ down to his bones, in only the way that family can know you.

He shut his eyes and prayed he could live inside her like this, whole and unmoving, forever.

_Cersei._

Someone knocked briefly. “My lady? You asked for me?”

And Jaime thought _: No_.

But he wasn’t quite fast enough to hide himself, clumsy and stupid as he was during the act, and Cersei — Cersei did not bother to move at all.

“Brienne. Stop. _Stop_. Listen to me.”

But she continued to Selwyn’s apartments.

Jaime had a moment to wonder at how far, precisely, Cersei had intended this to go — but no, she knew Lord Selwyn loved his daughter, she knew he wouldn’t humiliate her or risk a war by spreading the story.

Selwyn would only —

— only separate them.

“Brienne, _wait_.”

Again she pulled out of his grip. “Afraid to face the consequences of your actions, Lannister?”

“Let me speak to him.”

“And what are you going to say, that you can’t say in front of me? He is _my_ father, this is _my_ island —“

“I merely want the chance to tell him —“

“—to get free of your oath —

“— before you say something that we will both regret —

A new voice spoke. “Is this the way to Lord Selwyn’s chambers?”

Brienne made a sound like a scalded cat and Jaime only just had the chance to grab on to his wife with both hands before she stepped forward to do unknown damage. “Cersei. Whatever you want to say or do can wait. _This is not the time.”_

“I only want to have a chat with my ... is he my father as well?”

Jaime said: “Brienne, if I let you go ...”

“I will not harm her.”

So he went to Cersei and took her tightly by the arm. “Leave.”

“What?”

“Leave now.”

She laughed. “Jaime, be serious.”

“I will send an escort with you to the docks. You will board the first ship going north — whatever sort it is, whether they have a cabin or you bunk with the sailors is not my concern.”

She did not try to pull free. “Be careful,” she said to him. “Do you want to lose everything that matters? Joffrey and Tommen — even Myrcella. Even that stupid little imp you love so much. Would you ruin that, Jaime? Would you throw _us_ away?”

”Don’t do this.”

She jerked out of his hold. “You’re the one who is doing it,” she said.

And Jaime called for the guard.

When he looked for Brienne, she was nowhere to be found.

He didn’t even try to sleep in the bed that night.

Dawn.

Water brought up from the icy bowels of the ocean drenched Jaime, and he sat up spluttering. Sometime during the night he’d moved from the chair to the floor; someone had given him a blanket.

It hadn’t helped much. His muscles were cold and aching.

And there was his wife, holding the still-dripping ewer. “Get up.”

“Br’nne?”

“I have more water, if you need convincing.”

Jaime swore. She was worse than his father.

“Meet me in the yard in five minutes, or you forfeit.” She eyed him. “And put some clothes on. No one wants to see that thing.”

Four minutes and forty-eight seconds later, he was in the sparring yard, saying again “Wait, Brienne. Wait.”

“Get your weapon, Lannister.”

“My name is Jaime, and what are you talking about? What forfeit—“ He jumped back. “No warning?!”

She swung again.

Jaime took a sword — Selwyn had one held out for him.

She had been awake longer and warmed up her muscles, no minor thing in this cold morning air; he barely caught her swings, barely parried.

She was already sweating. He saw the lines running down her face.

“Tired, Brienne?”

She lunged; he caught it easily this time and pushed it back, chattering with nerves just as he always did. “You still grimace when you step forward, I told you that ages — fuck.”

“A hit,” said Selwyn.

“A touch,” said Jaime, who was beginning to bruise.

Brienne wiped her face and began again.

“What are we fighting about? I mean, aside from the obvious.”

“The obvious?”

Jaime did not quite want to say aloud “you walked in on me fucking my sister”; he glanced at his goodfather to see if Selwyn knew, and found himself on the ground.

“That makes two, for the lady.”

Jaime spit, blood and dirt, and sat up on his heels. “I refuse to finish without knowing the conditions, my lady. What do I win, or what forfeit, if I lose?”

Brienne was red. “Same as before, ser. If you win, you marry whom you like.”

“And if you win?”

“The same.”

Jaime decided to stay where he was. “You assume we are not on the same side.”

“I know we are not, and a refusal to take arms is a forfeit of the match, ser. I give you to the count of three —“

He was up and fighting on two, driving her back and back until she could only hold him off. She swore at him.

“Such language from a lady.”

“Shut up. Shut _up_. You will _not_ distract me. You will _not_ make me lose my temper —“

He leaned in, and let his voice drop down. “Should I try something else?”

She lost her grip, the sword twisted, and he struck her shoulder.

“Hit to Lannister.”

Jaime reached out. “Did I hurt you — dammit!” He’d jumped back, and her sword skimmed his tunic.

“Judgement?” she called out.

Jaime stared at her.

“No skin,” said Selwyn. “You can do better, Brie.”

So Jaime was safe a while longer. Sweat was running down his own face now but he dared not wipe it clear; he was only one hit away from losing Brienne, and he did not like to lose.

They circled. _Step, cross, step._

Jaime smiled at her. “Worried about your footwork?”

“You’d do better to look after your own feet. You’ll going to trip on that clump of grass if you keep going.”

“Nice try” said Jaime, “but I’m not” — and he tripped, barely catching himself with a sloppy step.

Brienne laughed aloud.

She caught herself quickly and raised a guard but Jaime was reaching out and —

“Touch!”

“No!” she snapped. “Judgment!”

“I hit you, Brienne —“

“You did not! You hit my skirt, not to skin —“

“Point to the gentleman. I’m sorry, my girl. I saw the hit.”

She swore horribly and jabbed her tourney sword into the dirt, wiping her eyes with the back of her other hand.

“Brienne,” said Jaime.

She froze, hand on her face, and looked down to see the sword’s dull point just a finger’s width from her chest.

Back in their room, Jaime tried to be polite about it. “After losing to me twice, you might want to just accept I’m a better fighter —“

“Bullshit. You’re a liar and a cheat, Jaime Lannister. You _know_ you didn’t hit skin. In a fair fight —“

“Oh, is your father a poor judge then?”

She stared at him — sank down into a chair — and covered her face a moment, trying to collect her breath. “Fine. It’s fine. There are other rooms. You can choose any of them, I’m sure, for the night. My father will send you on the first ship northward on the morrow. I’m sure you don’t want to wait.”

Jaime sat on the bed. His legs felt like water. “I beg your pardon?”

“We’ll have it annulled. Even the septons won’t argue if we _both_ say it wasn’t consummated —“

“Your father knows better.”

“My father was not there between the bedsheets. Only we were. And it was only once, and —“

“Twice.”

“What?”

“Twice. Technically.” He cleared his throat. “Although I also had you with my fingers nineteen times, and with my mouth seven times, and — are you blushing, Brienne of Tarth? You must be a maiden if you can still blush. Will you really pretend none of this happened?”

“You fucked your sister the moment you saw her. You think I’m going to pretend _that_ didn’t happen?”

He winced. “You don’t understand about Cersei.”

“If there is any explaination that doesn’t involve your cock, Jaime Lannister, I would be glad to hear it.”

“No. That is, yes. I mean ...” He was tired, sore, angry, and hungry, and his chest hurt worse every time she spoke. “Why did you fight me, today? Why have another test? Are — are you that desperate to get rid of me? Because I’m not going to lie and say that we didn’t fuck, or I didn’t like it, or I don’t want to do it again.”

“I — I know you want me — want that. So yes, we have that. Yes. And I admit you’re very ... you’re attractive ...”

“Is that all I am to you? A nice face and a ready cock? What will you do if something happens, like i grow older? What will you do if I look like ...”

“Ugly, you mean. Like me.”

He frowned at her. “I did not say that. You know I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t need to say it.”

“Beauty doesn’t matter—“

“Fine words from Jaime Lannister, who looks like a lesser god. Are you going to tell me that money is no importance, either, as you count your goldmines? Would your brother the imp say that his looks don’t matter?”

“Are you _trying_ to push me away? Good luck. I’m not going to Kings Landing without you, not unless you hog-tie me and pack me into a box on the hold. Come to bed with me. Let me inside you, let me take you, you want me to do it —“

“Jaime, _stop_. Stop arguing with me, stop trying to be clever. _Think_ a moment about what you’re doing. You have brains in your head — I know you do. You aren’t all green eyes and golden hair. Think. If we were to ... to do that, then what happens?”

He knelt down in front of her and ran a hand up her leg. She was still damp with sweat and mottled with dust. “You would enjoy it, and I would enjoy it. What else is there?”

She pressed her thighs together. “And afterwards? If were to get with child, you would have to stay. I don’t want that. I have no desire to trap you or to be snared myself.”

“I am not caught in a snare—“

“ _I am._ Being married to you, bearing your children, I am tied to you until you or the gods decide to end it. And I don’t want ...” She took a deep breath. “I will not be married to someone only because he won at a sparring match. I’ll run away. I’ll join the holy sects or go to sea. I am not an animal or a slave to be hunted down and controlled.”

She was right.

So Jaime sat back and ran his hands through his hair. “Alright. Tell me ... tell me what you do want.”

“I want a marriage — if I have to have one — between equals. I will not be taken in force or beaten out of anger or cowed into obedience to a husband’s moods. I will not stand by and smile while you sleep with someone else.”

He looked away.

She said: “I will not have my daughters raised to think their home is an isolated, rural dungheap. I will not let them learn that they speak the wrong way and think the wrong things, and the way they stand and smile and fight is wrong, everything they do and want and think is wrong.”

He tried to smile. “These imaginary children are all girls, and you’ll train them to fight?”

“I suppose the boys can learn to fight too, if they like.”

“And what if they’d rather be blacksmiths? Or acrobats, roaming with the players?”

“We can talk them out of it,” she said, with such bland confidence he laughed and kissed her, pressing himself between her legs, falling open to accept him.

He said, “I want to have you again.”

She pushed him away. “I just told you, no. It isn’t safe for me. And,” she took a deep breath. “And I don’t love you.”

Jaime shrugged. “I know that. I don’t expect you to love me. No one ever has, I think. Except for Tyrion. And he doesn’t have any better options.”

”Cersei?” said Brienne.

Jaime didn’t answer.

She swallowed. “I want better than that. My parents had love. My mother died when I was young but I remember it. I want that for myself.”

His patience broke. “You don’t want by halves, do you, Brienne? Only a renowned swordsman — who pleases you in bed — who respects you and bows down to you and will never never hurt you —“

“I didn’t say that.”

“If you don’t accept that you will be hurt sometimes, marriage isn’t for you and neither is love and neither is _life_. They all come with risks. Anyone you marry could die, or take a flat blade to the head and lose his mind, or fall in love with another against his will. Your children might drown or be stolen by the Wildlings or grow up to hate you.

“The best anyone can say is _I will try._ No one can promise you more than that. If they do, if they say words like _forever_ and you believe them, they’re a liar and you’re a fool. — And I know you’re no fool.”

She stared at him. “You can’t even say you tried. You slept with Cersei.”

“Yes. I did. And it was a mistake, and you know that. I made her leave and I stayed with you, and I don’t regret it.”

“You _hurt_ me.” Chin wibbling. “I didn’t know I cared enough that you could hurt me. I didn’t want to care.”

Neither had Jaime: but here they were. He kissed her. “Brienne. Please don’t make me go back to Kings Landing. Not in a crate nor in a cabin either.”

“Would you care if I told you to leave? Do you want to stay?”

“I already told you so,” mumbled into her neck.

She shifted to allow him access to more skin. “If you ever touch another woman again, I’ll cut off your sword hand and make you wear it around your neck on a chain.”

“Stop talking so much.”

“You swear to be fair to me — swear you’ll _try_? You will listen to me when I’m angry — you’ll be faithful — you won’t ever let me win when we’re fighting? _Jaime_.”

 _Yes_ , he said into her skin, kissing every bare part of her. 

Yes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Selwyn gave every disputed point to Jaime, knowing full well his daughter will set Jaime “free” by force if necessary.
> 
> *
> 
> for those keeping track at home, the score is one match up for Jaime.
> 
> if her father had judged fairly, they would be seen to be equals, as they are.


End file.
